Phoenix Maplewood What if the witches wrote the book

It did well with their fur pressed against each other. Though the trees shielded them from the worst of the wind, their combined figures ensured little to no warmth would go to waste. "I am a coward Star," he mused, tilting his head to nibble at the last of the berry residue that speckled her grey fur. "Perhaps loyalty or pride is my flaw, I don't know." Satisfied that her pelt was back to its familiar mottled sheen, he lowered his muzzle to rest atop her shoulders, his eyelids closing shut at weariness took a hold of his consciousness. "Never mind. We shall talk more when we wake."